


Claim Your Broken Crown

by BeesKnees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Family, Christmas, Community: rs-small-gifts, M/M, Piano, post—hogwarts, pre-Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesKnees/pseuds/BeesKnees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play the piano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claim Your Broken Crown

Remus stumbles up the last step to the flat and curses as he nearly trips. The groceries smack hard against his side and he reminds himself for the umpteenth time to remember to fix that bloody step even though he knows he’ll forget the instant he’s back through the door. He shoulders the groceries again, does a bit of wandless magic to unlock the sham of a lock on their door, and then pushes against it with his hip.

He’s about to call out Sirius’ name when he’s caught off guard by the thudding yet beautiful sound of the out-of-tune piano that sits in the middle of their living room. (They’d had to take what they could get, Remus being a werewolf, Sirius’ last name too infamous. They wound up in a flat in a Muggle part of London where the landlord had sheepishly shrugged and said that it was easier to leave the piano than to pay to have it taken out. A gift, he’d said, his tone implying that neither of them looked like the sort of blokes who knew how to play piano. That made Sirius fall in love instantly, because he hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play piano.)

Really, they’ve used it a as a sort of table. There are a thousand copies of the Prophet on top of it -- most of them adorned with Sirius’ more colorful comments. There’s a box of takeaway near the edge that Remus thinks is probably from only last week. Three empty mugs, and two nearly-empty mugs that hold cold tea. A small pile of books -- all Remus’.

The instant he realizes that Sirius is actually playing the piano, which struggles valiantly along to make the sort of noise a piano should, he freezes in the doorway. One of the bags drops idly to the crook of his arm, and there’s a load of wet snow melting against his scalp, but he’s not aware of any of it.

He forgets, he supposes -- not that they can ever really forget -- where Sirius comes from. Sirius is effortlessly coaxing music out of it, by memory no less. His fingers flow across each of the keys, long and deft, pushing down with the right amount of pressure. His shoulders and wrists form elegant, graceful lines. His posture is perfect, and Remus can almost see him as what he should have been, the lord of the House of Black, playing some song written by one of his ancestors for company who’ve come over for dinner.

Of course, all the posture and pretty movements in the world don’t change the fact that Sirius is barefoot, clad only in a pair of trousers that Remus thinks might be James’. He’s smoking the entire while, a thick cloud surrounding his head, ash balanced precariously at the tip. There’s a beer perspiring within reaching distance and Remus wonders if Sirius has mastered the art of playing classical music, smoking, and drinking at the same time. How proud his mother would be.

“I’m going to have to charge you if you’re just going to stand over there and gawk, Moons,” Sirius says through his cigarette. He lets one hand climb up the keys, playing a trilling scale while the other reaches up to finally remove the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He stubs it out into the ashtray beside the bench.

“I believe I can pay you in crisps,” Remus says with a smile.

“I accept,” Sirius answers cheekily. He slides down the bench and jerks his head in a distinctly Padfoot-like manner, gesturing for Remus to join him. Remus drops the groceries on the ground and then shrugs out of his too-thin jacket and threadbare scarf to join Sirius at the piano. His warmth is a relief after the biting cold of the outdoors. Sirius instantly maneuvers an arm around him and puts his hands on the keys.

“Though I do think you’re eyeing her up more than me,” Sirius teases, his voice low in Remus' ear. “A boy could get jealous, Moony.” He presses one of his fingers down lightly on top of Remus’ until the key sinks down and the piano let out a note that doesn't seem even remotely related to the beautiful song that Sirius had just been playing.

“A boy could use a little competition in his life,” Remus replies wryly without looking at Sirius. Instead, he watches the way that Sirius begins to guide his hands up and down the piano, the keys thunking along the way. They are yellowed with age, some of them giving too much resistance. Their hands make an odd pair together, Sirius’ still pale, although there's a spot of grease staining the back of his right thumb. Remus’ are red from the cold, crisscrossed with a thousand fine scars. They pick up speed as they grow more accustomed to moving together, Sirius’ hands curling over top of Remus’.

“I didn’t know you still remembered how to play,” Remus comments without thinking.

“Had to memorize a song a week for nearly seven years,” Sirius says, delivering this explanation lightly, as if it’s nothing at all. Remus knows better. Sirius avoids talking about those years in Grimmauld Place at all costs and he wonders what’s spurred Sirius to talk about it today -- to even sit down at the piano. His belly goes a little cold at the thought, because they are months out of school, but already he can feel this war grinding them down. Sirius has been rejected from Auror training three times now, mostly recently at the beginning of this month. It’s not because he doesn’t have the marks, not because he can’t pass the entrance tests, but because of his birth, because of his last name. There can be no chances in this war; they can’t take risks on werewolves and former pureblood heirs.

Sirius presses a kiss to the side of shoulder, pulling him away from his darker thoughts and into this moment.

“French music instructor, you know,” Sirius says, and he’s teasing now, the words breathed into Remus’ into his ear. “Master Black, you are not concentrating,” Sirius continues, his voice lilting with a perfect French accent. “He’d rap my knuckles when I missed a note. Had quite the collection of bruises going.”

“Sounds like you enjoyed it,” Remus responds.

“He was quite the fit bloke,” Sirius answers, his grin evident in his voice. He presses closer to Remus, their bodies fitting together. The bench creaks ominously beneath them and Remus hopes they don’t end up in a pile of splinters on the floor.

“Explains your obvious passion for piano,” Remus says.

“Jealous, Moony?” Sirius asks, and he’s shifted so close that Remus is practically sitting in his lap now. He knows beyond any doubt that if any music instructor ever heard the notes they’re playing on the piano now, they’d both have their knuckles soundly rapped.

“Of course,” Remus answers. He pulls his hand from underneath Sirius’ and merely lets it climb up the piano, playing note after note. “Think of all the pianos that man got to touch.”

He looks over his shoulder at Sirius who is entirely too amused. He’s only able to see his expression for a fraction of a second before Sirius closes the distance between them, kissing Remus intently. Remus expected the kiss to be heated and hungry -- but Sirius takes things slow, a rarity for him, and the kiss is long and thorough, a smolder instead of a burn. Remus presses his hand down too roughly and there’s a blare of convoluted notes behind them. Sirius leans his forehead against Remus’ when he’s finished, and he breathes quietly. It’s the only sound in the room, a startling contrast after the loud clanging of the piano.

He watches Sirius quietly, the clean arch of his nose and the measured line of his brow. There’s so much of his family in his appearance -- and none where it actually matters. He kisses the side of Sirius’ mouth again, a reassurance, a promise. He twines his fingers with Sirius’ and rubs his thumb across Sirius’ palm. He knows to be more afraid of the hurts that Sirius doesn’t vocally express, but he also smoothes them out the best he can by remaining steadfast.

Sirius smiles again, wrinkling his nose -- not an aristocratic action in the slightest.

“Tickles,” he says with a bark of laughter, pulling their hands up so he can kiss the back of Remus’. His eyes are alight when he opens them. He pulls Remus up off the piano bench and twirls him around once, dancing to some music that he only he can hear.

“Did you buy something tasty for Christmas dinner, Moons?” Sirius asks they swing around Remus’ coat. He’s all loose limbs -- none of the perfect form for waltzes and quadrilles that he must know.

“You’ll have to wait to find out,” Remus says. “I know better than to let you near the kitchen.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be proper for me to be in there anyway,” Sirius grins as they fly back around the room. Sirius’ bare feet slap loudly on the woodwork and then they’re back near the piano. Sirius pushes Remus against it, and kisses him roughly this time. The keys sink beneath their combined weight, letting out a cacophony of clanging and clunking noises. Sirius laughs into his mouth as their neighbor begins to pound on the wall.


End file.
